


Entropy

by clearascountryair



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Other, THE MEDICAL BROTP WE DESERVED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearascountryair/pseuds/clearascountryair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All her life, Jemma Simmons found comfort in the First Law of Thermodynamics, that energy can neither be created nor destroyed.<br/>As life went on, with every new friendship she made, she became increasingly distressed by the Second Law of Thermodynamics: entropy is always increasing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entropy

**Author's Note:**

> Massive shout out to agentcalliope for beta-ing and helping me think of a title

Entropy |ˈentrəpē | _n._ (colloquially) lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder.

* * *

I.

 

It felt like everyone was looking at her.  Every single pair of eyes, fixated on her as she stood there unmoving.

And yet at the same time, everyone seemed to be moving at impossible speeds.  They were in medical, she knew that.  Fitz had gone and the warmth of his hand had left her back and that was all she knew.  Bobbi was moving around the room, talking loudly and Lincoln was shouting back, as they moved around helping people.

_Helping._

_Help._

She should be helping.

_She needed help._

She took a deep breath in, trying to calm herself, and found it stuck in throat.

She was going to die.

She was going to die like all the Inhumans Andrew got to (because of her).

She was going to die like Will did in that godforsaken place (because of her).

She was going to die.

“Simmons!”

She turned to the side and surprised herself by letting out small shout of pain, and stumbled.  A pair of hands grabbed each arm.

“Simmons, you need to let Lincoln look at you.”

She stared at May for a moment before shaking her head.  “Fitz?”

“He’s with Bobbi.”

“Good.”

“Jemma.”

She turned to Lincoln on her other side.  “I’m fine.”  She could barely hear herself.  And then again, “Fitz?”

May released her arm.  “He’s a bit concussed, but he’s fine.  I’ll go wait with him.  But you have to let Lincoln look at you.”

So she did.  She let him walk her to one of the cots at the side of the room and pull a curtain to block them off.

“You can barely breathe,” he told her, helping her to sit.  “Where does it hurt?”

With one hand over her mouth (whether to keep air out or bile in, she wasn’t sure), she reached for the hem of her top.  She had barely brought it up to the top of her jeans when she realized she couldn’t move anymore.  All she could do was shake.

“Hey, hey!”  Lincoln sat down beside her, resting a hand on her knee.  “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

She shook her head.  “I barely know you,” she gasped out.

He nodded.  “I can get Bobbi.”

She shook her head again.  “You can’t tell Fitz.”

“Tell him what?”

She tightened her fist around her shirt and he nodded, helping her slowly pull it up to the bottom of her bra.  She was grateful that he only paused for a moment, that his intake of breath was barely audible, and then he went to work.

“You could have had internal damage,” he said later, wrapping a bandage around her torso.

She looked down at him.  Part of her almost wanted to tell him to run, to get away while he could. But she could hear Daisy’s voice from across the room and knew it would be pointless. “Do you love her?”

There, he paused.  “Daisy?”

She nodded.

He smile at her.  “Do you love Fitz?”

Tears welled in her eyes.  “He came back,” she said.

Lincoln leaned forward and gently wrapped his arms around her.

 

II.

 

She was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fridge.  It was almost one in the morning and she had figured everyone else was asleep.

“I was gonna bake cookies--is that weird?”

She gave a little half-jump and turned around.  Lincoln looked at the floor, bashfully.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.  I couldn’t sleep, saw the light on.  And Daisy mentioned that you like to cook.”

Jemma let out a soft snort.  “She said I don’t anymore, though.  Didn’t she?”

“She said once, back on the BUS, you managed to make the best cookies she’d ever had--plane food or otherwise.”

She bit her lip.  “I was going to make pancakes,” she said, and smiled, reminiscing.  “I used to make Fitz make them with me when we were at the Academy, at SciOps.  They make things better.”

Lincoln nodded, understanding.  “You know, they’re fluffiest if you let them sit a few hours.”

Jemma fought the urge to roll her eyes--after all, they had only ever had one proper conversation together.  “I used to make the batter night before exams and then cook them when I was done.”

“If we make it now, you could have them cooked and fluffy when he gets up.”

Jemma nodded, but her smile was tight-lipped.  “He blames himself, you know,” she said, unable to stop herself.  “For what happened to...for what happened there.  I think he thinks I do as well.”  She turned to begin cracking eggs into the bowl, determined not to cry.

“Have you told him that?”

She nodded.  “He didn’t do _anything_.”

“ _I_ know that, Jemma.”

She smiled a little, back still to him.  It was almost odd, having someone so casually use her first name.  Fitz did, when the world wasn’t falling apart (and when it most certainly was).  And the others did at times, but it was almost a tool of emphasis.  With Lincoln, it was just who she was.  She brushed a tear from her cheek.

“You remind me of my brother,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had one.”

She nodded, throwing the eggshells into the disposal.  “Three.”

“Which do I remind you of?”

She shrugged.  “Depends on the day.  It’s good, though.”

“I’m glad.”

Jemma smiled at him over her shoulder and went for the butter.  “Thank you.”

Lincoln laughed.  “What for?”

“Not treating me like I’m going to break.”

To her surprise, he laughed again.  “Jiaying was more afraid of that thing than anything else.  And you went through it and live to tell about it.  And make pancakes.  I don’t think you break easily.”

 

III.

 

Lincoln had woken up inexplicably, so he went to make tea.  He was passing by Jemma’s bunk when he heard the soft beeps of someone’s alarm and glanced at his watch.   _3:00am_.  He pressed his ear to Jemma’s door and, a moment later, silence returned.  So he went into the kitchen, and made two cups of tea: one in his normal, green mug for now, and one in a travel mug for when he inevitably woke up in another hour or two.

_3:20am_.  Again, a series a beeps in her bunk, this time accompanied by labored breathing.  Hesitantly, he tapped on the door before the beeping could stop.  For a moment, the breathing stopped.  There was a patter of footsteps and then the door swung open.  Jemma stared at him, bleary eyed.

“It’s not even 3:30,” she said by way of greeting.

“Can I come in?”  He held out one of the mugs.  He could make more later if he needed to.

She accepted it and stepped aside.  

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, pulling out her desk chair and sitting down.

Jemma sat at the foot of her bed.  “Doing what?”

“Waking yourself up before you get to REM.”

She took a sip of tea and looked away.

“I know Bobbi gave you sleeping pills when you came back.  I can refill it.”

“No!”  She clapped her hands over her mouth, she hadn’t meant to shout.  She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten in whispers Lincoln pretended not to hear before continuing.  “Sometimes I forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That I came back.”  Her voice broke.  “I’m still there and I’m still pretending I have a life worth living and I’m still dying because I’ll never see him again and I’ve used up my phone’s battery and I don’t even have a picture because he’s here and I’m still _there_.  That one day I’m not even going to be able to picture his face or imagine his voice and the voice in my head will just be my own and it hasn’t been my own since I was a little girl who hated herself because it’s always been him who makes it okay and who tells me that maybe I won’t die and that maybe I don’t deserve to and what if one day I can’t hear it anymore?  And if I dream it all comes true and the pills don’t help, they just make me sleep--”

“And the dreams still come, but you can’t make yourself wake up.”

She couldn’t even nod, all her effort concentrated on trying to find the air that had vanished.  He walked over to her, took her tea and, setting both mugs on the nightstand, sat down beside her and began to rub her back.

“You can’t live like this, Jemma,” he said when her breathing calmed.

“I know.”  She laughed and rubbed her hands over her face.  “Some nights, I walk.  I’m glad the walls are soundproof, and that he’s way down the hall--I wouldn’t want him to hear me when my phone doesn’t work, I don’t want him to know.  But sometimes I think of just opening the door and going in anyway.”

“He’d want you to tell him.”

She shook her head.  “I think he’d like to forget,” she said, and the tears returned.  “He thinks I don’t want him and I think he’s trying to train himself to not want me.”

There was a moment of silence before Lincoln responded.  “No offense, Jemma, but that’s fucking stupid.”  His statement caught her off-guard and she immediately stopped crying.  “Christ, Jemma.  You _need_ to talk to him.”

She let out a little snort.  “What do I say?  ‘I’m madly in love with you and it’s so distracting, I can hardly do my job?’”

She froze, hearing her words only as they left her mouth.  She had never said that aloud before, that she loved him.  She had only just recently allowed herself to think it.

Lincoln shrugged.  “It could work.  Daisy just started by taking off her clothes.”

Jemma rolled her eyes and smacked his arm.

 

IV.

 

They collided in the kitchen doorway, Jemma on her way in and Lincoln on his way out.

“Perfect,” he said, over her rushed apology.  “I was only in here looking for you anyway.”  He grabbed her arm and led her back into the hall, down towards the lab.

“Is something wr--”

He held a finger up, shushing her.  

“I like working in the lab with you, Jemma, I really do,” he said quietly, stopping a few feet from the lab.  “But it’s painful, _physically_ painful to watch you do step around each other.  I can’t do be in there until you fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Fitzsimmons!  Daisy says you two used to be the same person--”

“And then we almost died.  Multiple times!”

“But you want it, right?  Whatever you used to have, maybe even more?”  He smiled knowingly, and she wasn’t sure whether to be thankful for his efforts or annoyed by them.

“You know exactly how I feel.  It’s _him_ who won’t--”

“Bullshit.  Just go in there.  There are windows, so keep your shirt on--”

“ _Lincoln!_ ”

“Just _talk_ to him.  You’ll thank me later.”

He was right.  She half hated him for it, but he was right.

God, she missed _him_.

She missed being _them_ , being _Fitzsimmons_.

And she could stand to kiss him again.

(Or not stand, per se.  She wasn’t picky).

But even without that, she just missed him.

She took a deep breath and nodded.

“You got this,” Lincoln said, and she turned to go into the lab.

“Jemma?”

Her head whipped back and she hated herself for how easily she would take a way out.

“Later, talk to Daisy.  I don’t want all the dirty details.”

“I hate you.”

(Not really.)

 

V.

 

“You should have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have listened.”

They were in the lab, Jemma cleaning up some of Lincoln’s cuts.  She sighed.

“I’m sorry.  For believing you would run away.”

Lincoln half smiled at her.  “That was the point.”

“I know.  I still wish you would have told me.”

He nodded. “Jemma?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think she’ll come back?”  She shut her eyes when his voice broke.

Still, she nodded.  “Yeah.  Of course.”

“Jemma--”

“She’s Daisy.  She’s _Skye_. We’re her family.  She’ll come home.  As soon as Andrew--Lash-- gets there, he’ll kill Hive and bring her home.”

Neither was sure who needed to hear it more.

Throwing away the cotton swab, she sat down beside him.

“We’re friends, right?”

He looked at her and smiled (however sad of a smile it was).  “I let you drill into my skull.”

“Right.”  She nodded and took a deep breath.  “We had sex,” she blurted out.  “Fitz and I.  In Bucharest.  I know you said you didn’t want details, but I have to tell someone and Daisy’s not _here_.”

They both ignored the way she choked on Daisy’s name.  But, to her surprise, Lincoln snorted.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You did not.”

“Yeah, I did.”  After a moment, he said, “I have a question though.”

“I think we’re dating,” she said preemptively.  “I think.  I tried to call him my boyfriend and he didn’t freak out or anything.  But it was only that once in Bucharest because, really, you can’t get any privacy around here.  Not that I’m not trying--”

“Please.  Stop.  Not my question.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He looked at her and quirked an eyebrow.  “Just...do you call him Leopold?”

She let out a little shriek and he laughed and maybe they could both get their happy endings.

 

VI.

 

She couldn’t believe it when they turned around to find him gone and she couldn’t believe it when they found Daisy sobbing.

She couldn’t believe it when the quinjet’s signal disappeared.

She asked silly questions, and made mundane comments, because what she heard and what she saw couldn’t have actually happened.

She couldn’t remember a word that was said, it was as though she had gone so, so far away, leaving her body behind to continue on.

When they made it back to the Playground, overheated, but secure, she blindly followed Fitz into the kitchen and stood silently as he boiled the water.

Next to the sink, a green mug stood waiting to be washed, half a centimeter of cold tea still at the bottom.

The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the floor, half in Fitz’s lap and he was just holding her.

He was gone.  It wasn’t a matter of belief.  It was science, it was fact, it was seeing her world get torn apart again and again and again.

“I’m here, Jemma.” Fitz said, his voice muffled in her hair and thick with his own tears.  

He stood, half carrying her, and led her from the room, tea forgotten.  In her bunk, he helped her out of her clothes and into her bed and told her to try to sleep.

“I’ll try,” she heard herself say, pulling his arm around her waist.  “I’ll try.”


End file.
